A Full House
by DAzebras
Summary: A collection of House and Wilson oneshots either friendship or romance, clearly marked, representing various points in their lives.
1. Training

**A/N:** Here's the obligatory disclaimer--I don't own _House, MD _or any of the characters portrayed here. They are the property of David Shore and his various production companies. Now then, I feel I must explain this series before we get started. This is a collection of House related oneshots from either House or Wilson's POV ranging from K+ to M. The genre for each will involve either friendship or romance [yes, that means slash]. The rating and slash content will be clearly markd at the begining of each so that you will be able to read the chapters with which you, the reader, feel comfortable. On that note, here's the interesting thing I've done with the Chapter nmes. Each oneshot title starts with the word 'house' and forms a compound word, the last part of which matches the content of the chapter.

Before we continue, I would also like to thank my beta, **BleedingHeartConservative,** for her speedy replies and wonderful help. Thank you.

**Title:** House Training

**Rating:** K+, mild language

**Pairings**: None

**Genre**: Friendship/humor

**Summary**: An alternate first meeting between House and Wilson written prior to "Birthmarks." Everyone else had one, so I wanted one too. No, this has no relation to the episode by the same name.

* * *

I remember the day I first met him. If asked what my first impression of him was, I would have to say he reminded me of an overgrown teddy bear. His eyes were big, brown, and bright, the skin around them smooth as river rock. It was obvious by the gleam in those eyes and the hopeful expression on his face that he was naïve at best. Disillusioned. Lied to about the thrills of the medical world. He was one of those over-exuberant fools fresh out of pre-med with no real experience under his belt. And he chose to be an oncologist. That man was just setting himself up for disappointment.

I could see him across the room surrounded by other soon-to-be victims of my fellow residents from where I leaned against the far wall. He was of average height, a bit on the scrawny side at the time, with a boyish face. But it wasn't his looks that attracted my gaze, it was that damned enthusiasm. At first I thought he might need to be shown the way to the can, then I realized that he was bouncing on the balls of his feet out of sheer excitement at merely being in the hospital. I shook my head in disgust. Orientation days are always a headache.

I pushed off the wall and left the overcrowded lecture hall. Doctors of my level were supposed to stick around so we could become bestest buddies with the new kids and "take them under our wings," which was absurd, because when it came down to medical school and internship, it was every man for himself. All lucrative niceties established back in college were dissolved, and shameless ass-kissing and cutthroat manipulations were fair game. Half of those kids wouldn't make it even a week before they ran home crying to mommy. I made my way through the familiar corridors to the wing's vending machines. I dug through my coat pocket for change: sixty-four cents. _Damn._ Drinks cost seventy-five cents and Coke machines don't take pennies. I double checked my pocket and still came up a dime short.

"How much do you need?"

I jumped and whirled around to face the source of the voice behind me. It was that annoying kid from earlier. I frowned at him. "Do you _enjoy_ sneaking up behind people and scaring them half to death?"

"I'm sorry." He genuinely looked it, too. "I just thought you might need to borrow some change."

I studied him silently, and he didn't flinch under my appraising eye as I would have expected. I held out my hand, palm up. "Ten cents. Gimme."

He blinked at my brusqueness and dropped the appropriate coin into my waiting hand. "Here you go. You don't have to pay me back."

"I wasn't planning on it," I grumbled, inserting my money into the drink machine.

"Oh." The kid sounded the slightest bit crestfallen. He had probably been hoping to make a new friend.

I ignored him, grabbed my soda from the vending slot, and stalked off to the nearest bench, which happened to be about ten meters down the hall. I fully intended to stretch out on the barely padded surface, but continued on my way when I heard the slap of leather shoes behind me. The footsteps did not cease once I had passed the bench. Great, he was following me around like a baby duck. I tried to use my height advantage and longer strides to put more distance between us, but the duckling sped up until he was right behind me.

I stopped abruptly, and the twerp crashed into my back. I spun around in time to see him stumble backwards, and, while he unfortunately didn't fall on his ass, I had to repress a snicker as he wind-milled his arms in effort not to tip over.

I schooled my face into a stony glare and growled at him, "Why the hell are you following me?"

He at least had the decency to look meek, though he didn't seem nearly as intimidated as I would have liked. "I thought you might like some company."

I raised an eyebrow and shot him my patented "Are-You-Really-That-Stupid?" look. "I just snuck out of a crowded lecture hall full of moronic would-be interns to buy a drink and then tried to ditch you, and you thought I might like some company?"

"Oh."

"Yeah, _oh_."

"I'll leave you alone then."

I didn't wait for him to finish. I turned and headed in the direction of the nephrology department break room, knowing I'd find some peace and quite there.

"Hey! Hold on!" The kid jogged up beside me.

I was courteous enough to halt my trek for a moment. "_What_?"

"I'm lost," he mumbled weakly.

I stared at him for a minute then burst out laughing. I threw back my head back, grabbed my stomach and let out great guffaws—not the sharp, barking laughter I have now.

"It's not funny," he whined.

"You're right," I agreed, dramatically wiping non-existent tears from my eyes. "It's freaking hilarious!"

Now he was the one to grumble, "Could you just show me back to the lecture hall?"

I figured I may as well; the kid _had_ lent me ten cents, after all. Still smirking, I led him back to the orientation gathering through the labyrinthine halls.

We parted ways in front of the lecture hall's double doors.

He paused before entering the meeting. He held out his hand for me to shake. "Thanks. My name's James Wilson."

I stared at his outstretched hand for a long moment—namely to make him uncomfortable and partially to calculate any possibility of an ulterior motive—before clasping it in my own in a firm handshake. "Greg House."

_Fin_


	2. Calls

**A/N:** Thank you very much to my beta, **Sagheer Ta'er**, for all the help despite the unexpected problems. Thank you also to **MilesHighOnWheels**, **Lady Merlin**, and **Sarah Butter **for you wonderful reviews.

**Title:** House Calls

**Rating:** K+, drug use

**Pairings**: None

**Genre**: Friendship, hurt/comfort

**Summary**: Wilson receives a ditressing late-night call from House. [Could that get any more vague? He had a drug overdose, guys, a drug overdose.]

* * *

House Calls

It was two A.M. when I got his call.

"Jimmy? Can you come over?"

He only called me Jimmy when we were on the phone. He only ever called late at night when any other self-respecting doctor would be snuggled up in bed.

I rolled on my back and stared at the cracked hotel ceiling, clutching my cell to my ear. "Greg, you know I can't."

He only let me call him Greg when we were on the phone, when it was late at night, and most of the time not even then.

"I know, but I want you to."

"I'll be back in town tomorrow afternoon. My plane will get there at about four." I was in Boston for one of those annual week-long oncology conferences at Harvard Med.

"But I need you now. I miss you now," he whined.

This was big. This was not House. House never let on that he missed someone. House never admitted that he needed another person.

"House? Is everything alright?" I was worried now. This was nothing like our other midnight conversations.

"Mm? No…" His voice was faint. I noticed now that the groggy sound was something other than insomnia-caused exhaustion. Perhaps he was drunk?

I sat upright and swung my feet to the ground, my toes curling in the cheap beige carpet as I tensed in concern. "House, where are you?"

"Couch." His responses were slower now, his breathing slower too.

"How much have you had to drink?"

"One? Two. Two bottles." Not enough to get him more than pleasantly buzzed, heavyweight that he is. Not enough for him to pass out on the living room couch.

"Greg? What happened? What's wrong?"

"My stomach hurts. Thirsty."

Not himself, Greg was definitely not himself. Something was horribly wrong. These were the only thoughts that were running through my panicked, sleep-deprived brain as I asked, "Do you need someone to come over there? You want me to call someone to come get you?"

"Kind of sleepy now, Jimmy."

"Greg! Stay with me, okay? Don't go to sleep yet. Stay with me just a little longer."

"'Kay. Just a little longer."

I stood and began throwing everything in sight into my little duffle bag that I had brought with me from Princeton. "I'm going to hang up for a bit, then I'll call right back, so keep the phone with you. Alright?"

"Yeah."

I knew there was another question I should ask, a vital one. One that would either dispel or confirm my fears. But I couldn't will my jaw to unclench. I hung up instead.

I flipped through my address book as I struggled to pull on my Italian leather dress shoes with one hand. Foreman was the closest to House's apartment now that Cameron had all but moved in with Chase.

"Foreman? Yeah. Listen, I'm sorry to bother you this late at night, but I need you to go check on House for me. There should be a key above the doorframe. Thanks." He didn't waste much time with unnecessary questions and pleasantries, simply agreed and ended the call from his side of the line. I think he must have sensed the urgency in my voice.

The next hours passed in a blur. I called House back as I hurried down the stairs, too impatient to wait for the elevators. I loaded my tote into the passenger seat of my rental car I was supposed to return at the airport tomorrow and took off for Princeton ten miles over the speed limit at the least. I managed to keep House awake and talking until Foreman arrived a few minutes later and the paramedics soon after. Accidental overdose, I heard them say in the background. Accidental. I clung to that word like a shipwrecked man to a storm-tossed piece of flotsam.

_Accidental._

I arrived in Princeton a full hour sooner than it usually would have taken me to drive. I hopped out of my car and scurried into the ER where I found Cuddy waiting for me in the lobby. When she saw me approach, she set off through the corridors without waiting for me to catch up; she knew I'd want to see him as soon as humanly possible.

"How is he?" I asked when I drew up beside her.

"Stable. Nurse Previn's keeping an eye on him. He woke up a short while ago. He's still a little groggy. We have him on morphine for his leg and whatever else."

I shot her a dubious look; I wasn't sure of the wisdom behind giving him more opiates so soon after an overdose. "What happened?"

"We're not exactly sure. He overdosed on Vicodin, but we don't know if it was accidental or not."

I swallowed hard. That was what I was worried about. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd done something like that, something that purposely endangered his life.

"Charcoal?" I asked, referring to his treatment. This would have been so much easier if I could have just looked at his chart.

She nodded in affirmation and added, "Naloxone, too." She halted outside of a private room with the blinds drawn closed in front of the glass wall and gestured for me to enter.

I slid the door aside as quietly as I could, not wanting to disturb him if he were resting. He lay against the flat pillows, garbed in a standard issue hospital gown, an IV drip—most likely full of saline—attached to his arm. I had seen House physically vulnerable before, but he had never looked so… sickly. His skin was pale and slightly ashen, and surrounded by the halo of white sheets, he looked almost as if he were dead already. Only the steady waves on the heart monitor alerted me that this was not so. I shut the door behind me and approached the bed.

"House?"

He cracked one eye and peered up at me through thin lashes.

"Hey. How are you feeling?" I sat beside the bed in a chair dragged from a corner of the room.

He opened both eyes, blinked several times, and swallowed thoroughly. "Throat hurts."

"That's generally what happens when you get tubes shoved down your esophagus."

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips but did not make it all the way to his eyes.

Neither of us spoke for a time. His lack of jokes and sarcastic jabs was disheartening; it meant that he knew this time was serious, as much as I desperately wished it wasn't.

"House—"

"I didn't do it on purpose," he interrupted. "I know that's what you're thinking."

"Well, what the hell am I supposed to think? You call me at two in the morning overdosing, instead of getting yourself to the hospital. If it wasn't on purpose, then it certainly looks like it."

He turned his head away from me and studiously avoided my gaze. "I know."

"House," I said sharply, waiting until he looked at me before continuing. "What happened?"

"I just took too many. That's all. I wasn't trying to hurt myself. It was an accident."

"How in the world do you accidentally overdose? You know how much is too much."

He didn't answer, just picked at the bed sheets distractedly.

I reached out for him, my fingertips hovering over his hand, but was unable to bring myself to touch him. I withdrew my hand. My voice softened, and I leaned closer in my seat. "Please tell me? I promise not to get angry until after you've finished talking."

He looked up at me and studied my face closely for a moment, then nodded. "Water first."

I poured some water from the pitcher sitting on the bedside table into a clear plastic cup and helped him sit up to drink. I kept my hand on his back to steady him as he drank, relishing in the feel of his body heat through the thin gown. Whatever had happened, he was safe now. I would make sure of that.

He handed the cup back when he was finished and pulled away from me, a motion motivated by his unfamiliarity with human touch. He avoided my eye. "I was in pain. I took more than usual. That's it."

"How many more than usual?"

"Wilson, just leave it alone," he said tiredly.

"No," I said sternly, leaving no room for argument. "I'm not going to leave it alone. I need to know. How many pills did you take?"

"I don't remember."

"House."

"I took two more than I usually do, and then I had a couple of beers."

"Is that all?"

His gaze was still locked on his lap. If he were a small child, I think House would have hid his face under the blanket; he knew he was in trouble. He shrugged in feigned nonchalance. "I figured I may as well have some fun, so I took a few more. I lost count after that."

My first instinct was to scream; my second was to punch him or strangle him or something equally violent and unhelpful. Instead I took a deep breath and willed myself to be calm. "You took pills to get high?"

He refused to answer.

"House! I can't believe you! You said! You said that you wouldn't!" I stood abruptly, shoving my chair roughly behind me causing it to tip over and loudly crash to the floor. "You've told everyone who asks that they're just for the pain. How can you expect anyone to believe you when you overdose on them for fun?"

"I know. I'm sorry," he muttered through clenched teeth.

"Sorry doesn't cut it, House! Why the hell would you do something like that?"

"What do you want me to say, Wilson?" he shouted, finally turning towards me with flashing eyes. "That I was lonely? That I was bored? That I was having a bad day and just wanted to relax a little?"

Someone less familiar with his moods might have been intimidated or frightened into taking a step backwards by the biting tone in House's voice. But I know him. That wasn't the tone of voice he used when he was furious or even slightly annoyed. That was how he sounded when he was trying to cover his weaknesses, when he was vulnerable. I had heard that tone many times when he was trying to hide just how much pain he was in.

I sat lightly on the edge of his bed, half expecting him to push me off. I had several questions that needed addressing, but I picked the most personal—the one he would hate the most—to ask first. "You were lonely?"

He brought his hand to his mouth and began gnawing on his thumb nail, a nervous habit I hadn't seen since he was courting Stacy.

I poked his thigh in hopes of encouraging him to answer.

"Maybe."

"House."

He shrugged.

I smiled knowingly down at him. "It's okay if you were. You can say that you missed me."

"I didn't miss you," he stated firmly. His eyebrows were furrowed in the traditional scowl he wore whenever someone had the audacity to suggest that he cared about another human being.

"No?"

"No. I just didn't get to eat lunch yesterday. That's all."

"And would that have anything to do with my not being here to buy it for you?"

"Possibly."

I was grinning from ear to ear now. This was as close as he was going to get to admitting that he needed me while sober.

"Oh, wipe that silly grin off your face." He wriggled farther under the covers, knowing he was off the hook for now. We would talk about this again later, but for now I was content to allow his manipulations. Whether he meant it or if he were merely trying to get me off his case was a mystery for another time.

"Do you need anything?"

"I need for you to shut up so I can go to sleep. Get the light, will you?"

I stood and did as he asked, righting my chair as I went.

"You want me to stay?" I questioned, knowing he would never ask.

"You can if you want," he mumbled as he made himself comfortable on the lumpy pillows.

That was a yes.

I settled down in the chair next to him and waited for him to drift off to sleep. When his breathing slowed, I indulged myself and watched him for a few more minutes before retreating to my office couch for the rest of the night. Before I left, I smoothed his unruly hair from his forehead and tucked the sheets up to his shoulders.

"Goodnight, Greg."


End file.
